


Anvils Bring Us All Together

by treeofworlds



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Pre-Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-26
Updated: 2016-02-26
Packaged: 2018-05-23 10:24:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,147
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6113584
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/treeofworlds/pseuds/treeofworlds
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“I hate Mondays.” Thorin mutters into the bar-top. His shoulder aches despite the position he's keeping it in, so he shifts into a more comfortable position.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Anvils Bring Us All Together

**Author's Note:**

  * For [driedupwishes](https://archiveofourown.org/users/driedupwishes/gifts).



> So this is the second part of Boo's birthday present! Happy birthday babe, even if this is slightly late and i still have one more to finish.

“I hate Mondays.” Thorin mutters into the bar-top. His shoulder aches despite the position he's keeping it in, so he shifts into a more comfortable position.

“Long day?” Someone asks. Thorin is too exhausted to lift his head, merely nodding into the sticky wood that tends to be typical of bars.

“Bloody long day.” He rumbles, and sighs. His head hurts.

“Want to talk about it? Or would you rather get a pint down you first? Maybe a burger?” The voice asks, and bemused, Thorin lifts his head to stare at his conversational partner.

“You assume that I’m going to talk about it at all.” He says, marginally more cheerful, and sufficiently intrigued by the, quite frankly, tiny bartender of the charming little gastro-pub.

The very, very attractive, wholesome looking, tiny bartender, whom Thorin suddenly wants to put his tongue on.

In places. Places, okay.

“I've been a bartender for a long time. People always talk eventually.” The small, curly haired man, in the most comfortable looking cardigan Thorin has ever seen, turns and pulls a pint fluidly, and Thorin's stomach clenches pleasantly at the sight of his fingers wrapped around the hand pump.

The bartender hands him the pint. Thorin eyes it suspiciously and tries not to think about undoing the buttons on the man’s cardigan with his teeth.

“It won't bite.” He is told mildly.

“I didn't order.”

“No one does, here. Not the first drink, anyway.”

Thorin blinks. The bartender smiles, and stands on a small stool to reach a bottle of what appears to be whiskey down from a shelf that Thorin wouldn't even have to stretch for. He pours a generous measure and slides it down the bar neatly to the polished looking woman in a suit, a harried expression on her face as she speaks into her phone. She raises a hand in thanks to the bartender and sips, her face relaxing slightly and leans her elbows on the bar, pulling a few pins from her vibrant red hair. It tumbles down around her shoulders as she speaks rapid french into her mobile.

“One of my regulars. Tauriel has a preference for whiskey.”

“Hm.”

He takes a cautious sip of the beer, raising his eyebrows in surprise at the creamy, nutty flavour that bursts on his tongue.

“Not bad.” He allows.

“Practically a glowing commendation from you, I would think.” Somehow the harsh words seem soft, teasing even, from this calm man, with his softly curling hair and comfortable clothes and his bright smile.

“You have to earn my compliments. It's beer. I like it. I’ll drink it. End of.” Thorin takes a long sip from the glass and sighs contentedly, tension from what he internally dubs 'the day from hell' melting away.

“The look on your face will do for now, I think.” The barman grins and Thorin has to concentrate on swallowing his beer without choking.

Thorin watches him putter around, mixing drinks neatly and pulling perfect pints over and over, chatting to customers with whom he is obviously familiar, until he has drained his beer entirely, which he has decided he does very much like, and may even want another.

“Hey, uh...”

“Bilbo.”

“Yeah, could I get another of these?” He wiggles his empty glass.

“Of course, just let me finish up with Dwalin's Piña Colada.” Bilbo deftly pours the cocktail into a glass and places a sprig of some plant or other on top. He sets it in front of a huge, bald man, with tattoos and knuckledusters, wearing a leather jacket.

Apparently stereotypes don't exist in this pub.

Bilbo takes his glass from him and pulls another pint into a fresh glass.

“Thanks.” Thorin takes a swig and hums happily. “I'm Thorin, by the way.”

“So, are you going to talk about your day now, Thorin?” Bilbo leans one forearm on the bar and smiles at him. Thorin smiles and pushes his glasses up his nose.

“I'm a blacksmith. My new anvil split open this morning. Brand new anvil, and it split right down the middle. Probably a flaw they didn’t notice in quality control, and anvils aren’t too expensive for the use you get out of them, but you do tend to need one to smith.” Thorin shrugs. “And so I lost a day of smithing because my anvil is fucked up. Likely lose tomorrow and the day after, too. I'm backed up on horse shoe orders too and can’t fulfill any of them, and I have the finishing touches on a special commission to finish which is due in three days.” Thorin is too relaxed to be properly angry right now, though, though the commission is worrying him, as it has to ship out by the end of Thursday.

He’d rather wonder if Biblo flushes all the way down past his collarbones.

“I'm sorry.” Bilbo furrows his brows, and as Thorin studies him, he does look genuinely sorry.

“Thanks.” He says gruffly. “The beer more than makes up for it, though.” He raises his glass and tips it in Bilbo's direction.

“I thought your compliments had to be earned?” Bilbo teases ,drying a pint glass deftly.

“You listened. That earned it. Besides, this beer?” Thorin flashes one of his rare smiles at Bilbo, though it does end up buried in his beard, and he runs his fingers through it absentmindedly.

Bilbo's eyes go a little unfocused, and Thorin grins properly, pleased he judged this correctly. He's been imagining this little man in his bed all evening and he intends to get him there.

So he draws his elbows forward, knowing it pulls his shirt tight around his biceps and makes his forearms look 'like God himself has reached down and crafted the most beautiful pair of forearms you've ever seen', according to one of his one night stands.

Bilbo swallows.

“So. You'll have ordered a new anvil, then?” He asks, managing to look Thorin in the eyes.

“Mm.” Thorin draws swirls in the condensation on the bar. “I made the phone call to the factory and asked them to custom it for me, because I’m a little larger, honestly.” He flexes slightly. “I'm tall and bulky, you know? I need a bigger size of anvil than they stock.”

“Uh-huh, I can see that.” Bilbo meets his eyes stubbornly, and Thorin can see his blatant interest.

“Do you want to see it a bit closer?” Thorin looks up through his eyelashes and worries at his lip slowly.

“I get off at ten. Mondays we close early.” Bilbo says, looking slightly dazed.

“It's five to ten, you know. Reckon you can get off now?” Thorin smirks, tension from his day bleeding away entirely.

“I think that'll be your job tonight.” Bilbo starts rapidly finishing closing up.

“I think it will.” Thorin muses. “I think it will.”

As it turns out, Bilbo does blush past his collarbones.


End file.
